I like to travel, read, write, dance and pretend. At the moment I am suffering an insufferable phase of self-aggrandizement, premature maturity and lack of wit.
If you think you can help me out of this funk, write me at idaman.z@gmail.com
I loved that her lips were softer than mine. It drove me halfway to depravity, how beautiful she was. I wanted so much for her to want me.
With her I had to tread softly. I was careful not to treat her like a fragile creature, but sometimes I failed. She is so slight, I feared I would break her in the violence of my embrace. My passions are of the aggressive, destructive ilk, and I didn't want to destroy her. When we kissed I would put my hands on her waist, and I'd let her draw me in. She smelled like honey and soap and mint and cigarettes.
Sometimes she would fight me for no reason; she would hit me, push me away roughly when only moments ago her tongue had been in my mouth. I'd step away and she'd step right up to me and kiss me again. She was as mad as I was and it made me sad; she deserves better.
She would refuse to see me if I had a skirt or a dress on. If I wore a t-shirt or a top it stayed on, if it was a shirt she would unbutton it but wouldn't let it slip off of my shoulders. The rules she made only applied to me; I was free to reduce her to any state of undress.
I suspected she had a problem with her attraction to me. She never admitted to anything.
She gave me books and dessert. She called me Babe and nothing else. I would spend hours just tracing the line of her shoulder to her ribs to her waist to her hips, all the way down to her toes. We weren't in a relationship - it was a whirlwind of craziness.
She hated that I had to leave. I told her a week before I departed and she just stayed silent.
She didn't say goodbye. No news from her since I left - no email, no messages - just more silence. I guess I met my match. She played the game as well as I did.
